


Incarcerations of Trust

by orphan_account



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bukkake, Choking, Double Anal Penetration, Double Oral Penetration, Explicit Language, Forced Orgasm, Gang Rape, Gangbang, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Minor Violence, Rape/Non-con - Freeform, Restraints, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:53:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23858641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: There was only one true statement about the King of Redania. It was that Radovid V the Stern never forgives and never forgets, even when those who deal with him do. And he was never seen without his Witch Hunters, in case those who faced him needed reminders of what punishment they wrought. Especially those as defiant and ill-bred as Vernon Roche.
Relationships: Radowid V Srogi | Radovid V the Stern/Vernon Roche, Vernon Roche/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 41





	Incarcerations of Trust

**Author's Note:**

> I had this on the back-burner for about two years.
> 
> Simply this is Witch Hunters x Roche Non-con. I wouldn't go too much further if that makes you uncomfortable.

His head hit the back of the wall hard again, his lungs begging for more air as he gasped, struggling to breathe as the hot and disgustingly thick come choked his throat, gagging him for a moment while the stars filled his vision. Another head injury. Just what he needed.

“Swallow!” the prick growled above him, fisting his hair again and shaking his head like he was a bloody doll, knocking his vision about. If only he had his sword - his beloved zweihänder. It would look beautiful lodged through the Witch Hunter’s neck. But he had given it up at the door when he had stupidly walked in. A sign of good faith. Of fucking trust.

He should have known. Gods help his stupid, fucking naive ass. He should have suspected something was going to happen to him when asked to forfeit all of his weapons, even his medallion to Witch Hunters. When he read the letter that morning telling him to be at the Chess Club well beyond when he could arrive and to not be late. Hah. What did he honestly think would happen? He would share a cup of tea with Redanians? They’d all reminiscence of good times? When did anything he ever accept turn out not to be a trap these days? Yet it was done and he was stuck. Locked in the building and being shaken like a rattle over not sucking down a whoreson’s essence.

It took all his strength to close his mouth and do as he was told, swallowing with a shivering, repulsed motion, before he finally caught Radovid’s eye from where he sat at the table. Where his chessboard with its numerous pawns was untouched by his folded hands.

His Majesty, King Radovid the Cunt looked utterly indifferent at his suffering. At what he was being forced to do.

The gods damned _sadist_.

“Alright, hand him over,” the next bastard said, moving to grab the back of his head, twisting his short-cut hair within his fat fucking fingers as he wrenched him from where he had fallen, dragging him forward on the floor. Another cock slapped his cheek before he could think, stinking of sweat and leather, and he shuddered as his jaw clenched, not willing to give in. It was repulsive. “Open up, darling.”

He had protested before. At the first asshole who had grabbed him. Begged. Pleaded. Bargained desperately for an answer to why, which never came. If he tried again, he knew nothing would be given other than another punch in his stomach or collar, and he was left trembling as he fought the urge to just bite the whoreson’s prick and die rather than endure another round. But he had to. He ploughing _had_ to.

Temeria was in ruins. She was bleeding, being simultaneously savaged and scorched. Destroyed even as he sat whimpering. Nothing was going to be salvaged at the rate Nilfgaard was razing the lands and he vowed to save the only thing he had left from becoming utterly desolate. No matter the cost to himself. He had to give in to Radovid, the King of Redania. To his Witch Hunters and rules and fucking whoreson's army. There was no other option.

Yet this was near breaking. How much was he willing to endure for his country?

The second he opened his mouth - his lips trembled as he did - the whoreson’s cock was slammed down his throat and he choked, grasping onto Witch Hunter’s leg in pain. It suffocated him in an instant, filling his mouth with the taste of unclean cock, and he struggled not to bite. Especially when he was pressed right to the bastard’s base, forcing him to gulp around the full length of the prick.

His fingers dug into flesh underneath the thin trousers. He wanted to throw up. It ploughing _hurt_.

“Oi, come hold him! He’s getting fidgety.” 

Of course. No mercy. He was as equal as one of the witches they hunted. Just another magic-using slut to be subdued - or in his case, a defiant Temerian whoreson. As if they cared about his discomfort and hatred at that moment.

He only saw shadows surround him, blocking his view of Radovid, and another hand grasped his head, pushing down as two more wrenched his arms back by the wrist to immobilize him in his awkward kneel. The way he was put into the position was too damn efficient and learned to be a coincidence and he fought not to think on how they trained for these moments. He clearly wasn’t the first experiencing this. Being forced to pleasure the Witch Hunters.

Though he wondered if Radovid ordered this done be frequently, or if this was his first time watching. Neither answer brought him much comfort as he dwelled on it but anything to forget the feeling of a whoreson’s cock thrusting down his throat was welcome. Only it was hard to fully ignore.

They didn’t care if he choked or gagged. If he liked it or not. Hell, it didn’t even seem like they minded if he was _conscious_ ; As long as he was pleasuring them. That his mouth was open, that he didn’t bite, and he kept quiet. His head was held still as the bastard above him fucked his throat raw and behind he felt how hard the grip had grown on his wrists. Pulling them back far enough it felt like his shoulder would pop off. They were clearly growing excited by how obedient he was being and how he wasn’t fighting back.

Not like he had a choice.

The cock thrusting into his mouth picked up its pace, the bastard trying to sheath his entire throat against him, and he whined deeply in response. In agony at being made to be so subservient.

He used to be someone. For fuck’s sake, he used to have some fucking dignity.

Of course they couldn’t just ploughing blow their load and leave. It was if they wanted him to tease them into spilling their essence down his throat. As if he liked this sort of thing. Bloody pricks. He remained as still as he could, letting the bastard above grind his hips against his lips, his hand pushing him flush to his skin. But he had to swallow and breathe, and the moment he struggled, he gave them an excuse to attack.

He was pulled off the whoreson’s cock, just quick enough for him to get in a short, wet breath, before he was slapped so hard that his eyes nearly went cross. “Trying to fight back now, are we? His Majesty was right. You are an unruly cunt, Vernon Roche.”

Fucking Radovid. Fucking Witch Hunting pricks.

“We’ll fix you up, don’t worry,” the Witch Hunter holding his right wrist said, and he opened his mouth to pant - not speak - resulting in him getting punched. Right against the temple. It nearly knocked him over and he was aware the high-pitched cry of pain came from no one but himself. “Digger, have at’em again.”

“Sure,” the bastard before him grinned, and he was wrenched back over to the shithead's dripping prick, the wretched cock hitting his bottom lip before it was properly shoved back in. His mind was too much of a blur of pain and dizziness to do anything else but relent and he once more was forcibly pushed down to suck in all that he could. To the point where his nose was buried in thick, wiry black hair and he felt nothing but pain and the throbbing of the whoreson’s cock. He gagged when the bastard’s dick thumped the back of his throat and it only made them laugh as saliva bubbled from his lips in near panic.

“Guess you’re too big for him, Digger.”

“Guess I am,” he chuckled. His fingers wove knots in his hair as he held him down, painfully pulling on each strand, keeping him impaled on his sad tosser of a prick. But he had to endure. For his country, for his pride. And sadly, for his life.

Thankfully, it didn’t last long.

Digger, as he was called, forced him up and down on his cock without delay, thrusting into his mouth every once in a while to groan while his balls tried to work. Whoreson may have delighted in making him choke, but his load was pathetic when it finally came. It rushed out in whimpering spurts, enough that he could spit it back all over his cock and when he pulled away he was left with only a small amount dripping from his lip, his breaths ragged as he finally breathed in somewhat clean air. It hadn’t been as bad as the first, something he was grateful for.

Unfortunately, the two other bastards excitement was too much and he was ripped back from where he was kneeling, knocking him to his ass as the one let go of his wrist to shove his face into his groin. Another stinking cock. Even worse, the other joined in and he grit his teeth as two pricks slapped his face, one over his right cheek and the other against his mouth. And, of course, they both grabbed his hair.

He was getting _real_ tired of it. They were going to make him go bald.

At least his wrists were both free again.

“Suck, darling,” the one asshole said and he pressed his lips thin, his hands bracing himself on the floor so he could dig his fingers into the wooden planks in defiance. When he didn’t move, the one whoreson made a move to slap him but he wasn’t so stupid as to let him do it again. He was getting real sick of that shit too. Hurriedly, he snatched one of them into his mouth, daring the bastard to hit him as he did, and the hand was lowered. 

Only the other cock pressed against his already full, bulging lips. Was he serious?

“Make room,” the prick demanded, and he blinked. That wasn’t even possible.

Didn’t matter. He was supposed to be obedient. The head of the other cock pushed against the corner of his mouth, wanting in, and he pulled back, horrified at the suggestion.

“You-!”

Too late. It gave them a reason to hit him and he barked out a cry as pain and spots spun through his head and mind, the contact of leather hitting his exposed skin making a sharp, biting sound in his ear.

“Hey!” the other snapped and his head was jerked back in place, both wanting attention as the cock was once again pushed at his maw. This was ludicrous. “Sneaky slut. Trying to get away?”

More like he was trying not to resist choking on two fucking dicks. As if they cared. The neglected bastard shoved into his mouth, pushing deep past his teeth and over his tongue, but the moment he pulled back enough for his cock to nearly pop out, his bloody friend forcibly pushed in. Stretching him, gagging him, and worst of all, getting the head of his cock in enough he could taste it.

If the fucking gods existed, he could really use their help at that point. Yet he was alone, he knew it, and it left him with whining in pain as they both pressed in. Both wanting his throat, the heads of their pathetic cocks stretching the corners of his aching mouth. But it didn’t ploughing work that way. They could only go so far and he could only take so much.

They still tried, the whoresons. Pushing and fighting to get in while he gagged. It felt as if his jaw was going to fall off.

Two pricks vying for his mouth, trying to stretch it to accommodate, holding him still with their blasted fingers so they could. It had been a long time since he struggled with anything - weaponry, tactics, physically demanding environments - but this was challenging him. He trembled against them, trying his damndest to make them realize it wasn’t going to work without using words, his fingers clutching at their legs and coats in desperation. Tears actually fucking formed at the corner of his eyes as they both tried shoving in deeper and he trembled in pain from the motion.

It wasn’t going to work, couldn’t they tell? Were they stupid? Blind? Was the point of it to make him beg for mercy or bite? He was really fucking tempted to do both. Just sink his teeth into their weak flesh and tear. But the moment he said anything, they stupid shits would do the opposite. He could only endure, and his right hand shook as it slipped to grip at the floor, his nails digging into the well-worn wood. Was he willing to let his jaw become unhinged for his country?

The right bastard pulled out, relieving his aching cheek and his conundrum for a moment, and he huffed around the prick still in his mouth, shuddering at the taste of bitter precome and how much everything ached from just a minute of being stretched. 

“Oi,” the one said, making him look up before he realized he was referring to the bastard with his cock still in him. It was pulled away, the Witch Hunters exchanging looks before they turned. Blocking his view from where Radovid sat, both waiting obediently for something. Whatever. He didn’t care. It gave him time to reach up and rub his cheeks, how he almost had been subjected to having his mouth detached. How his jaw groaned, his teeth hurt, and how pathetic it was he could feel wetness on his cheek. Tears of pain. 

Gods, he wanted to kill them. Slaughter them all and bathe in their blood just to reveal in their deaths. Yet of course, this wasn’t going to happen and he flinched when the two bastards moved to stand around beside him. At least they no longer seemed interested in breaking his jaw.

Except the one stupid shithead, Digger, came forward and gave him a once over, his prick still hanging loose, slick with his come and saliva. Disgusting. He briefly met his eye, his breath ragged as he tensed under the angry, pig-eyed stare of the Witch Hunter. Then a boot moved and slammed into his chest with a frightening force, kicking him down hard onto his back and knocking a hard breathe straight out of his lungs. One that made him cough violently and wheeze after. He needed to stop underestimating the ploughing whoresons and pay attention to what the fuck was going on.

“On your backside, Vernon Roche,” the prick on his right smirked, and he glared at them, but remained down. Unwillingly to test what they wanted to do since his jaw still throbbed in pain. “My, you look rather natural like that. Laying down like a whore.”

His cheeks burned a bright red at the statement but he held his tongue. Even if he nearly bit through it to do so.

“Right. And off with this,” the left said as he bent over and he flinched as his gambeson was grabbed.

“What?” he sputtered, but it was useless. Just like everything he did around them. In a second, hands were on him, wrenching off belts and laces and he hissed when they yanked his armor over his head, getting it stuck as they didn’t fucking undo the belts on his arms. Leaving him blind to what they were doing and inhaling the stench of his own sweat that had soaked through his armor. “A-Are you mad?!” he spat. “Let me-!”

There was a ripping sound. Then air hit his chest. What the fuck were they doing?

Finally the belts on his arms were unbuckled and his chainmail was ripped off with his blue, proud Temerian armor. It was tossed like rags to the floor behind him and he stared down at himself, flushing at how the stupid fucks had purposely ripped open his shirt near down to the navel. His cream-coloured skin looked sickly pale under the candlelight and he frowned when Digger grabbed his boots and ripped them off, tossing them against the wall where they banged and fell on their sides.

He didn’t like this. He really fucking didn’t like this. Using his mouth was one thing, but this? It was going a little far. Even worse, two more Witch Hunters entered, both looking down at him with suspicious grins, and he flicked his eyes to Radovid.

He _yawned_.

Gods, it made his heart race in fear.

“Boys,” the stupid fucking Witch Hunter to his right said and they all exchanged silent nods before their hungering eyes laid on him. A look that made him taste fear on his own tongue. He fucking knew those types of gazes. This would be the time when he would want to escape. Just ploughing run, fuck it all. Whatever they wanted, he couldn’t give, and his flight instinct was starting to scream in his mind. Get the fuck out, no matter what. Temeria was dying but he wasn’t in the mood to do so that day, and his chest rose and fell in building panic.

Shakily, he swallowed, and slowly he began pushing himself up onto his elbows, trying not to look like he was currently a rabbit caught in a snare.

His movement caused their movement, and he flushed as the pricks beside him grabbed his shoulders and shoved him back down, his head nearly banging on the floor again. Digger and one of the others grabbed his ankles and for a second he wondered if they were going to just pick him up and drop him again or something.

It was much worse than that. As soon as they spread his legs, he began to tense.

“Wait,” he hurriedly breathed, his eyes widening as they yanked him forward and up, lifting his ass off the floor so only his lower back and shoulders supported him. A knife flashed, pulled from the pocket of one of the new Hunters and his heart began to race as he could only watch in horror. The tip of the blade slid under the leather strap that held his padded leggings to his body, neatly fitting between the tight space.

It didn’t take a genius to know where this was going.

One harsh slice was enough to break the strip away and he watched as his legging sagged, ready to be pulled away from his hip and leg. 

The knife then slide down to the side of his undergarments.

“Wa-wait,” he stammered, his pulse now thundering in him. This was going too far for him to handle. “Don’t-!” 

The ripping of cloth filled his ear; A wretched sound. Far louder than he ever thought and it made his entire body grow cold as the one side was torn apart. He was fully exposed - in every sense of the word - and the hot embarrassment that flooded through him couldn’t repair the shame now creeping in. He wanted to cover himself and curl over. Gods, and for the bastards to stop fucking staring at what they were exposing, but the knife was only passed to Digger. He gripped his ankle with a bruising strength. It wasn’t going to end.

He shoved the blade between his skin and the fabric, pointing up, and another rip made him shake in horror. What had once been a protective covering from his damned precious bits was now just shreds of cloth and it was tossed near his head. As if to emphasize his position.

He tried closing his legs but the damn whoreson’s held their grip. They weren’t letting him off that easy.

“F-Fine,” he started to spit, trying to awkwardly lean up on his forearms, but it was near impossible as the two others slammed him down, keeping him trapped and dizzy. “You… You’ve humiliated me. In front of the King of Redania. Congratulations.” His voice couldn’t stop shaking. “N-Now please let me go. We can forget this.”

“Let you go?” one of them smirked. “When the King hasn’t even had a chance at you?”

No.

“Don’t be silly, darling.” One of them teased and this time he couldn’t hide the dumbstruck dread that filled his entire being. He looked over to where Radovid had been sitting and he saw no feet around the chair legs, making panic fill his veins. When did he get up? How did he not hear him?

A hand touched the back of his thigh, forcing him to jerk his head forward, and he gazed at Radovid. The fucking King of Redania. How the young royal asshole stood before him, staring at him with indifferent, bored eyes, looking much taller than he remembered. It made his breath rattle and he gave him a pleading look.

Don’t fucking do this.

_Please_.

Radovid merely blinked once before his eyes slid down. Right to his damned flaccid and sad looking cock. No, before it. He dryly swallowed, the tension in his body making every muscle go rigid in fear.

He felt as if he was watching a scene from a slaughter. Right before a knife was stuck into the pig’s neck and it was divided up. Only he was alive and watching in fear as Radovid - Butcher of Redania - gazed at his body as if contemplating how to cut it up. His hands were cool, sending shivers down every inch of his exposed skin, and he slowly brought his crawling fingers up his thighs to rest momentarily. Settling in a place that was highly uncomfortable for him. That was where he began to spread. Where he was the most exposed - too close for his comfort or sanity.

The King's thumbs dipped into his skin around the edges of a part of him he never wanted seen, digging into the soft, sensitive flesh, and he began pulling. Prying open the one place that made him whimper in panic. Radovid spread him wide - thin - and merely looked as if he was assessing a parchment of provisions as he stared into his exposed inside. How could he be so emotionless? No, how could he do this to him as if it was routine? What did the young bastard get up to?

Why was he doing it to him?

He wished Foltest was alive. That his unit was there. Anyone. Fucking he’d take the bloody Emperor of Nilfgaard. Any fucking person to save him from what was coming. He didn’t want to be slaughtered. He didn’t want to be ruined like this. His teeth chattered for a moment as dread took full hold of him and he quivered like a mouse, begging for release.

Radovid’s thumb pushed in, entering his body, and he let out a horrid whine. It felt awful.

“See, Your Majesty?” the prick to the left of him grinned, his smile wide as he bent over him with his cock still flopping about a bit, wet from his previous forceful interaction. “Told you he’d love it.”

“Temerians,” one of them laughed and the rest joined in. Gods, he wanted to nail every single one of their heads to a pike. Twice over.

The only one not laughing was Radovid. It was chilling in a sense and he found himself staring at him, right into his damned spruce-coloured eyes. How blank and hollow they looked, completely void of any emotion. As if he was a thrall or something. It unnerved him more than the Witch Hunters hungry stares.

Then the King finally fucking spoke. After not saying a word for the entire time.

“Vernon Roche,” he said softly, yet he knew the tone held no comfort. “King of Temeria.”

What? “I’m-?”

“That’s what they’re calling you, you know,” Radovid kept going, not caring for his sputtering, and his thumb pushed in deeper making him bite his lower lip. Fuck, he wished he’d pull it out. “The Savior of the North. Temeria and the Pontar’s last hope.”

He would dispute that. Honestly. Especially against the King standing before him, staring down at him like he was a mere ant to be crushed. Worthless.

“Your Majesty,” he breathed. “I’m not. I never-!”

“I know, Roche,” Radovid shrugged, but it was a bare acknowledgment. As if he was being generous by responding to him. His eyes moved lazily down to where his fingers were lodged, looking at where they were joined as if it was some boring normal thing. “You would never claim such things. You’re loyal but not ambitious. I’ve heard it all before.” His thumb withdrew, almost completely but he held the tip of it in him, resting it for a moment over his hole. As if studying the size comparison between the width of his thumb and his exposed body. “Yet I can’t help but wonder if you ever were to grow too bold for your own good. What would that mean?” 

He dipped the tip in again, pushing down, and once more he pressed his lips thin as he tried not to clench around the invasion in his innards.

“Foltest trusted you a great deal, didn’t he?” Radovid asked. He only flushed. “How far did that trust extend?”

“I don’t know…” he whispered. Low enough so that Radovid probably couldn’t hear. What was he referencing? What the fuck was going on in his mad mind?

“How much do you love your country of Temeria, Vernon Roche?”

He swallowed. This was a baiting question. As if he knew what he thought, he dug his thumbnail into his vulnerable trembling insides.

“Answer me.”

His body shook. This was a frightening trap. Nothing he said would make this right, but he had been given an order by a foreign King. One he couldn’t deny. Yet even though this was one question he could never lie about, something inside him desperately wanted to. Declare his love for Redania or something - anything. Just to make them leave him alone. 

But Temeria was his only mistress. Even the fucking dead knew it to be true.

“I love it m-more than anything.”

Radovid’s eyes flicked down, his frame still for a second - strangely regal - before he made a sound.

“Hm.”

That was it.

That was _fucking_ it.

It would have bothered him more if he wasn’t spread like he was with a finger inside his ass. The Redanian King’s bored note of his confession was probably the best he was going to get that day. At a statement he truly meant. Did it matter? No. Besides, something more pressing was going to happen - literally - and he frowned as one more Witch Hunter came in. The one who he had sucked off previously, who had slammed him against the wall. He held out a bottle and Radovid took it with his free hand, looking it over before giving a nod.

The cork was pulled and he flushed as he watched the small flask move to pour out a thick, translucent liquid right against his hole. The stretching began anew as Radovid popped his thumb out but he used his other fingers to hold him open wide, letting the cold liquid fill him and drain in, ignoring the overflow that trailed to slide off and drip down his back. It was spine-shuddering to feel something get poured into himself and he tried hard not to heave, wanting to push everything out. To fucking get the hell out of there and not look back.

He had been so stupid. This was such an obvious trap. How the fuck did he not know? No, how the fuck was he so naive to think this type of thing wouldn't happen to him? It was a new age. Nilfgaard was right on the Pontar. And he stupidly thought Redania would have his back, not just want his ass? He swallowed the lump in his throat, wincing as the oil was pushed deeper into himself by Radovid's thumb, and it left him feeling sick. 

Special Operations.

Fucking he was too stupid and naive to muck dung at this point.

The Witch Hunter stepped back, recorking the bottle as he did and Radovid’s gaze focused as he used his thumbs to pull him wide open once more, staring into his vulnerable body. He tried his damndest not to pant from below as panic surged and waned inside him. That the shivers rushing along his arms and legs were not only from the oil, but the fear filling his brain. This was not going to end well and he knew it. It was building to it.

He was going to hurt in every sense of the word.

The first of Radovid’s fingers that properly pushed in was his index. He could feel it just from the length and it made him shudder and fall back, his eyes gazing to behind him, between the Witch Hunters to the wall where he had been struck against. Desperately, he focused on it, trying to ignore the feeling of a second finger entering - the middle, which was capped with a ring - but it was impossible with a third. Even the Witch Hunters began to chuckle as he shifted and struggled not to clench, his cock responding to the delving by twitching and leaking.

He couldn’t control every part of himself, he knew that. But by the fucking stars and gods and sky and all that shit, he wished it wasn’t so obvious when he was experiencing something mildly pleasant. This was unwanted. It was disgraceful.

As if his dick cared.

Three fingers were beginning to thrust in and out of him, exploring for a moment, testing how to do such a thing in such a small space, and he slumped against the boards, shutting his eyes tight as he felt it. He grit down on his teeth so hard they clicked and shot pain into the core of his mind, but this was awful and humiliating - depressing. Radovid, the fucking King of Redania, was fingering him. It wasn’t about his pleasure. The entire day hadn’t been about what was good for his enjoyment. It was about them - Redania. The Witch Hunters. Their damn King. Domination over his sad fucking body - for reasons he had no fucking idea why.

Radovid wanting was some sick form of satisfaction or something for seeing him submit was baffling, but he could only whimper as he had to allow it, the hands on his shoulders and ankles reminding him he didn’t have a choice in the matter anyway. He was getting fucked with royal fingers whether he wanted it or not and piss on him if he wished to complain. It made him swallow and struggle to hold down his agony of being in such a situation.

He used to stand before Foltest, King of Temeria. Now he was on his back being an open whore for Redania.

He preferred Nilfgaard at this point, and they had wounded him so greatly he still hadn’t recovered after a year. But anything was better than this. Right?

Radvoid’s fingers turned while he whimpered to himself. Searching for a second before they brushed against the wall of his body. Nudging something inside. Something _bad_.

He jerked hard enough that the Witch Hunters dug their fingers into him and a low groan escaped his throat.

Fuck.

_Fuck_.

**FUCK**.

The King did it again and he was helpless to the feeling.

It felt fucking _good_. And the guilt surged after, coating his cheeks a flush red.

Quickly, Radovid’s fingers began applying pressure. Pushing against the spot, rubbing it in small circles, and he clenched his entire body around it, his mouth dropping open so he could gasp as his back tried to arch. Oh fuck, he had to fight it. He truly did. Somehow! Yet he couldn’t - not against the feathering flicks of ecstasy, and it dragged out sounds from him he never wanted anyone to hear. Needy and hot; Dripped and dipped with lust. His hips moved and his cock bubbled out his own seed and he was left with a knot forming deep in his stomach as parts of him wept from this.

He didn’t want it. Not from him.

“Y-Your Majesty,” he tried to reason with him, opening his blurred eyes to stare at an indifferent King. “W-Wait. You… You don’t-!”

His fingers sharply slammed the spot and he bucked hard, yelling as he did, hating that it only got him held down to the boards and chuckles at his degrading display.

“F-Fuck!” He cried, everything inside him tensing. “Fu-Fuck…!"

King Radovid the fucking Stern did it again and he lost. It was too much for his mind to take.

He began harshly milking him, in a sense, for all his pathetic worth, and he cried out as he tried to thrash, the feeling unbearable. He was trapped, forced to endure it, and his veins and blood screamed as he struggled in vain not to. He didn’t want this - it was too close to pleasure and passion - and he choked on a howl as he clawed at the boards with the tips of his fingers. Splinters nicked the underside of his nails. Yet Radovid didn’t stop. His fingers only increased their pressure, sending electric waves throughout his body, the sounds of wet oil and skin sliding together driving him mad with shame and he couldn’t hold for long. It was too much and he already had been forced through enough. The taste of cock still lingered on his tongue and the hands holding him to immobilize his frame was only driving him crazier.

It was a punishment, one he couldn’t endure, and it drug out every degenerate noise from deep in his chest. He could take being whipped. Punched, slapped, kicked, beaten. All of it. He gladly accepted it. But pleasure like this? No. It was too much, and he nearly wept as his legs were spread wider, forcing him to feel more. The frightening feeling of being forced into arousal.

There was a pain to it, this tease of release, the roughness and taste of softness and endurance and fleeting relief. Everything ran too fast, too quick, and too hot within him and he was forced into a position of dizzying highs that left his chest tight in agony. Coming. He needed to come. And every push and press only made it worse until his thighs were shaking in need. Unable to stop as they screamed with the rest of his body for release and his voice began to grow hoarse with need.

The one of them - Witch Hunter or Radovid, he didn’t fucking know - reached down and squeezed his poor sack, and everything came undone in a burst of angry pain. Former Commander of the Blue Stripes, a man who survived through wars and wounds, was brought to tears while being made to come. It was worse than being pushed in a fire. He was being ripped apart from the inside. Dragged over stone, flogged with needles and spiked lashes.

What came out as he let go was an awful noise. Honest and brazen on how he felt as his own come spilled down and hit his collar. It rushed after his hot, sweet, forced release, turning it into more than what he wanted, and he bucked his hips up in tune with he feeling, his thighs quaking in relief. His insides craved more of Radovid’s fingers - to massage that place - and to reward his aching body making him inadvertently beg for the young King. Babbling and sobbing as he came like an animal. Yet his whines were not given a reply.

It had a domino effect. His blatant ecstasy, how he was flush with it and couldn’t deny it, was like he had given a signal to the Witch Hunters. Before he could even properly revel in the first taste of an orgasm he had denied himself for months, his head was grabbed and tilted and a cock was shoved deep into his mouth from above, balls pushing against the bridge of his nose.

He choked, his hands flying to grab at the bastard who was taking his one moment of relief to pleasure himself, but it was too late for him to protest. He saw only darkness as the whoreson straddled his face, pumping his cock into him, and his fingers only grasped smooth leather and dyed brown cloth. He wanted to thrash. To rip off the bastard’s cock. To bloody well arch his back and stretch his shouting, cramped muscles and to fucking breath without a dick being wrenched down his throat.

But another weight came on him. A gloved hand on his chest. Then he felt the hotness and shape of a prick move against the exposed skin. Rubbing as fingers pried away his shirt. Then it settled, deciding to frame his damned left tit. The slimy prick began rubbing his ploughing cock against it. As if he was a woman. Prodding his nipple and pulling it as he smeared it with come. 

Gods, he wanted vengeance for this. 

Whatever pleasure he had felt in that short moment had evaporated and he was once again angrily fighting, his brows fixing into a tight knit line of fury as he was forced to endure, all feeling of helplessness rushing back into him. How Radovid’s bloody fingers were inside his body - not moving, but remaining still - and his legs were still spread. Now at an angle that was beginning to hurt. That he had some bastard son of a cunt fucking his throat and another treating his chest as if it was a good place to rub off on.

He felt another hand on him, this time near his hip, and another stupid whoreson began rubbing himself off against his exposed stomach, sliding the head of his cock against his belly and scrunched navel. It made him fist the jacket in his hand, his angry growing hot, and he struggled to not lose it.

He wanted all of them fucking dead.

As if the King of Redania had sensed it, his fingers withdrew from his body, giving him some relief. But the men rutting on him stopped and the cock lodged down his throat halted and he became aware something was being said.

“Turn him over.”

He swallowed thickly around the dick, his anger quickly receding into fear. Then his ankles were released and his lower body went crashing down, all within the same breath, and his body slammed hard against wooden boards. He howled around the cock, the sudden change in position sending flurry of emotions into his mind - mostly pain - but the prick in his mouth was pulled out and he gagged for air, arching slightly, reaching to soothe his ass.

Until a boot kicked his stomach and he shouted, curling into himself, his eyes breaking open to angrily find who did it. Yet darkness filled his vision again and he was wrenched and ripped. Hands grabbed his flesh, bruising it as he was dragged onto his stomach, and once more his ankles were snatched. He was spread wide, his cock pressing into the wood, and a rough hand slapped his exposed ass with a force that made him jolt.

The laughing was really beginning to piss him off. Witch Hunters. They were all going to be his next fucking victims. He would massacre the entire lot in Redania until the hills were soaked red.

“Push him up,” Radovid’s voice commanded and his hips were soon caught by rough hands, pulling harshly to raise him into an exposed position. Like a bitch presenting herself in heat. He twisted, wanting to lay back down or fucking get away or some shit, but one of the Witch Hunters loomed over his front and his hands slammed into his shoulder blades, keeping him immobilized to the floor. He clawed at his boots, sucking in pained breaths, but nothing was going to be done. He knew it. They all knew it. He was trapped like this until whatever Radovid wanted was over, and it made him realize how truly helpless he was.

Him. Vernon Roche.

He made a fist so hard he could feel his nails dig near-permanent indents in his palm.

One again a cork popped and his hole was spread. Wide, with calloused fingers, meaning it wasn’t Radovid. Two hooked on his insides, pulling open to the point where he helplessly cried out, and he could feel the air cooling parts that had never felt oxygen. Spreading him like he was a woman. It was beyond humiliating and he squirmed in vain, wanting the prick to leave him be. To stop treating him like he wanted this. That his body accepted being handled in such a degrading way. But it only made the opposite happen and he was spread open more, leaving him near sobbing.

"You're real pink inside, Vernon Roche."

He wanted to cover his ears. The fucking whoresons.

The relief wasn’t any better. When the Witch Hunter's greasy, disgusting fingers finally relaxed and moved, an oil-drenched cock slapped over his exposed body and he tensed in horror, his teeth gritting as he stared at the dusty boot of the bastard still holding him down. It wasn't over. The moment the cock began pressing in, he lost his voice. All that escaped from his mouth was a shaking, rattled breath from the last reserve in his lungs. He was being penetrated. Unwillingly. As if he was a virginal bride on her testing night. Worst of all, the cock was uncomfortably big and he stuttered as it pushed in enough that he could feel the head in it's horrible glory. Thick and flush and not willing to pull out.

Then it snapped forward, plunging in without ease or notice, and he reacted out of instinct. Arching, thrashing, shouting. The cock buried itself to the hilt, thrusting down so hard he felt his stomach heave and his forehead crashed against the boards, a cry escaping from deep in his chest.

There was no mistake that he was inside him. Radovid. The vicious, witch-hating King.

Everything trembled when he heard a slight smug huff. It came from him, no doubt. The Young King was enjoying this. But whether it was from the penetration or his wails, he couldn't tell.

Maybe both.

The hand on his right shoulder lifted, leaving a strange sense of relief before it grasped his hair and slammed his head into the boards, knocking the sense out of him. He literally barked from the impact and stiffened, making the young King almost groan.

“Keep him down,” he ordered. Emotionless. Then he pulled back, to the point where the tip of his cock could easily fall out, before he steadied himself on his hips. Holding him in place as the rest of them joined in to keep him still.

He swallowed and shut his eyes, his teeth clenching together as hard as they could. It didn’t help. Not against this.

Radovid slammed into him so hard he saw stars. And it began.

The King had truly lost his mind.

No, he was the one who had. How the fuck did he not see this coming? How stupid could he be? He begged Radovid for help previously when he had been broken apart by Nilfgaard at the Yaruga. It was there he had been met with indifference, just like every other time. Only now did he feign interest - and for what? To use him? Violate him? Treat him like a whore at a brothel who had refused his offerings? Gods he was a fucking idiot. Seven Witch Hunters were not needed for a meeting between them. But he still had a modicum of trust for people. No, for Kings.

His trust had brought him to his literal knees, and he grit his teeth so hard his gums hurt as he felt how helpless he was. 

Radovid’s cock was hammering into him, claiming him for Redania, and he was left whimpering like a pup, his face flushed in shame as the hand on his head, shoulders, and legs immobilized him to the floor. The fingers tangling in his hair drew into a fierce grip and they shoved him against the boards until his cheek burned on the wood. Woodgrain sketching into his poor flesh to be a reminder of his obedience in that moment. The rest of the hunters adjusted their grip on his back and legs, making sure they were secure. The two on his ankles spread him wider, putting him into a more stretched stance so the head of his poor cock scraped the floor and he was held down harshly as Radovid fucked. Like an animal - a monster. He could only swallow his wounded pride and endure. Forced to listen to the slap of royal skin meeting his own abused flesh.

This was it. What they wanted. He was being used. A dumping ground for a madman. He was so fucking stupid to think it would be anything else and he gulped down the lump in his throat, his tongue thick as the rest of him was rattled with the thrusting. Forced submission, unwilling subservience. Was this was got them off? Radovid and the others? Seeing him struggle in pain and conflict. To fuck him when he was so wounded?

Maybe it was. Or it was a punishment for something else. Temeria and Redania had always been shaky allies and if he was favoured over a King, then this was him being put in his place, wasn’t it? Radovid was fucking him - hard enough his lungs burned - and he was being made to stay in a position of his choosing. Spread, humiliated, after he had come like a shameless animal with a few fingers. If he fought, it only gave the Hunters an excuse to beat him. If he liked it, it gave them fuel to insult him about how easy he was. This was a loss for him. Punishment. Victory for the King. It gave him a power he sought and reminded him of his stance in life.

That he would always be serving a King. Whether it be Radovid or his Imperial Ploughing Majesty, Emhyr. No matter what he did, he had been born to serve. In any way demanded.

Only Foltest had never treated him in such a way. He never looked down upon anyone - yet now he was gone and it left every Temerian to the will of the rest of the world. He sheltered them too much. From this. The way things were.

A whimper of agony slipped past his lips and he trembled against the hands and prick driving into him. He understood. They won. He lost. And it was if Radovid read his mind, his hips slowing for a moment before he spoke. His voice dripped with satisfaction.

“You may do as you wish,” he told his Hunters. 

He didn’t have to have his eyes open to see their enthusiasm at being given free reign over their prey.

Radovid only continued for a few more thrusts before he pulled away, clearly finished with what he wanted to do. It left him at the mercy of his Hunters - greedy fucks - and his head was immediately lifted to be shoved forcefully down on a cock, made to swallow it as someone took the King’s place. Pushing into him, grinding down hard, and he didn’t fight back. There was no point by now.

It escalated from there. From his defeat against the King.

He let them use his throat, not complaining at the roughness in which they fucked it or when hands tightened around his neck, purposely choking him out of all air the moment he swallowed up a prick to the base. Hands stretched him, wound around his wrists to hold his arms up, and he only struggled when two wanted him at the same time. Not his mouth, but his ass. One sliding in after the other, opening him to the point where he nearly fainted.

And they loved it. The bastards loved it. How his eyes rolled back, how he couldn’t speak, how when he wailed in pain, they pulled at his sore nipples and gripped his cock to stop him from experiencing any pleasure. He lost. He fucking lost. He was theirs and he couldn't do anything about it. 

He was _fucked_. 

Rough, angrily, furiously. Every part of him was open for them to use, and whatever sounds he made didn’t matter. They spread him to show the King. They pushed the chess piece that shared the likeness of Foltest into him. They threw him over tables, fucking him against walls, and whipped his ass so hard that he felt cuts open on the red flesh. And he could do nothing about it.

He was theirs to use.

Only when Radovid got truly bored did it end. When he stood up, flicking over the chess piece of Emhyr, did the storm stop. The Witch Hunter mounting him was on his last few thrusts anyway, and when he was finished, hands hooked under his arms to drag his ragged body up. Forcing him to kneel as he shuddered and trembled at the pain throbbing through every vein in his body and how utterly limp he was at the endurance. At the filthy torture he had gone through.

“Enough,” Radovid sighed. “I grow tired of this.”

He swallowed when he heard the words, begging the gods his words were true. He couldn't stand much more. He was close to utterly breaking in half.

“Finish it.”

Kill him?

No. Something worse.

One last fuck you. One last grand show of humiliation. Every cock slapped his face as hands moved to hold his throat and head steady. His chin was tilted, his mouth opened, and they did one last show of coming on him, forcing him to taste seed that overflowed in his mouth and holding him still so he couldn’t escape when they spilled over his hair and closed eyes. He trembled at the contact, how he was being used in such a fashion - forced. Made to take one last degrading act. When the final spurt was splashed over his forehead and he was let go, his body voluntarily collapsed and he hit the floorboards hard, cracking his cheek against it.

He made no effort to get up. To speak. To fucking do anything. He merely lay on the wood, sucking in small breaths, semen coating his mouth and face and hair and ass and everywhere he never wanted it to be. His body had been treated thoroughly like a piece of meat that had been wickedly tenderized by a spiked mallet and he didn’t have the strength to even attempt to pretend he handled it.

He missed his King. If only Foltest had known what was going to happen to all of them when he died.

“In three days time, Roche,” Radovid’s voice came from somewhere behind him. “I’ll send for you. I expect a prompt reply this time. Otherwise, don’t expect any mercy again.”

He tried to lift his head but he couldn’t. Was that was this fucking was all about?

No.

_It couldn’t be_. Radovid couldn’t be so petty, yet he couldn't be sure. 

But he didn't want to go. He didn't want to see them again.

_He had no choice._

“Until then,” one of the Witch Hunter’s said. Then the sounds of shuffling filled the room before it was silenced and he was left wheezing softly on his own. Shaking in pain.

He let out one agonizing sob before he stopped himself. That wouldn’t help. Nothing would. He needed to just get the fuck out.

It took a mountain of effort of push himself up, his stomach churning deeply as he began to cough, spitting up the disgusting seed that had been forced down his throat, nearly throwing up all over the floor. He wiped at his eyes, smearing white across his face and forearm, but he wanted it off. Away from his eyes, nose, and mouth. All of it. Every drop of seed and sweat and ploughing grease from the Witch Hunters. He needed a long soak in the Pontar - maybe for over a day. Anything to get the feeling off of himself. The film of shame and humiliation. 

As soon as he drew his legs up, he knew it was a mistake and he whimpered at the pain that shot up from his ass. How he heard drips on wood from between his legs as he hunched over, nearly in a fetal position. From blood or seed, he didn’t know. Did he care? No. It was all the same. How stupid he had been - Vernon Roche, pride of Temeria. Reduced to curling over on a floor with come all over his body, quivering like an injured dog.

He stayed like that for longer than he should have, his breathing painful as his pride and dignity wept at the savage beating they had taken, before he slowly struggled to get up. He couldn’t properly do it on his own - it hurts, gods did it hurt - and he crawled to a table to help, pushing himself up so he could stand on wobbling legs. His leggings slumped around his ankles, his skin shivering with exposure and drying come, and he found the single cloth used to wipe down the chessboards. The owner could get a fucking new one. He spit into it, wiping away everything he could, before violently stuffing it behind a shelf. Away from everyone's eyes but especially his own. He couldn't face how soaked it was.

There was no point in dwelling on it. He hissed as he bent over to grab his chainmail and the slow process of him dressing himself began. Cover his shame. Hide it. Mask what happened.

The last thing he donned after his ragged chaperon was his sword and Medallion. The hefty zweihänder that had been too far away to help and his last reward for Temeria. Pitiful. He ran a finger over the lilies, trying to remind himself that maybe it had been worth it, but he knew his excuses were shit.

It wasn’t. All it did was make him lose trust and file away more anger into his heart. Temeria was still being destroyed.

He could join her now.

Hah. Fucking useless.

He couldn’t even get a proper revenge out of this and he fucking knew it. They had gotten away with punishment and he had nothing to protest. But it was over and done and he couldn't remain. Even if shuffling to the door made him wheeze.

Walking was damned near impossible after what he had endured, he had to admit, but somehow he did it. He moved forward instead of falling back to the ground. When he pushed his way out into the night air, thankful he would be shrouded somewhat if anyone saw how thoroughly fucked he had allowed himself to get, his lungs burned at the taste of wood smoke and acrid smells. Yet it was better than the stale stench of sex and sweat that clung to him. And he could smell it better than anyone else.

Quickly, he got away from the Chess Club, hobbling slightly as he did, and no one gave him a thankful second glance. He was invisible - just another peasant or some shit - and it left him grateful that for once no one cared. Even though walking on stones hurt. Every step was a spear up his backside.

As soon as he crossed the bridges leading away from Oxenfurt, the road turning to soil and dirt, he took a harsh left. He didn’t care. He couldn’t handle it any longer. The water of the pontar sloshed against his boots as he stormed into it, breaking through the lapping, gentle waves, and he made his own as he struggled to get further out. Into the deep water so he could fix himself.

When it began engulfing his waist, his uniform soaking every drop and growing heavy, he let himself fall. Down into the river, the water rushing over every part of him, swallowing his sins, and he opened his mouth to drink it in. So that his throat could be cleansed along with his organs.

He didn't care. He didn't fucking give two fucking shits at the taste. He just needed it to restore himself. Sanitize and wipe away the marks of Witch Hunter hands.

The first time he broke from air, he swallowed helplessly at it, the rush of the Pontar dripping off his chaperon and nose making him cringe. The second time, he remained still as he let saliva dribble from his lips, the taste lingering too vividly of what had been done. He gulped in the water, throwing it back up, until finally everything ran clear in his blurry eyes. The third time, he relaxed. The weight of his armor and body threatened to suck him into the mud, but feeling clean for the first time that day outweighed his fear. He spat up anything more that he felt, his hands cupping the water so he could keep scrubbing at his face, and when his rolled up hood slipped off, he grabbed it and used it to scrub his head with vicious intent. Until his skin was pink and he stopped feeling as if he was a rat on the streets of Vizima again, begging for crumbs of bread.

He rubbed until he felt the weight of it slowly drain off and that what was left on his skin was unstained.

After a while, he struggled out of the river, the mud sucking at his feet, and he collapsed beside the road on the grass, breathing slightly as he wrung out his head covering, ignoring the marching guards rotating on the nearby bridge.

He was too old for this shit. Beyond the years where this would be something he worried about. He had been someone once, hadn’t he? So what the fuck had happened?

“Roche!” He flinched at the sound of his name, his fingers turning white against his wet chaperon, and when he looked over his shoulder, the sight of a certain blonde-haired girl made his face flush. Ves. Not Witch Hunters. Just Ves, followed by two of his soldiers whose names he couldn’t remember. They slowed and lowered their crossbows but she didn’t relent. Her steps were forceful and worried and it made him slightly cringe. “Roche! There you are! For fuck’s sake, we’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

He stared at her, stupid. What was she on about? “Ves,” he said slowly, swallowing for a second. His throat tasted of river water. “I thought I told you to stay at camp. Permanently.”

She came round him, her hands slapping on her hips and he found himself staring at her exposed skin. From collar to navel. Brazen and foolishly open. If Radovid’s Witch Hunters saw her… No. He couldn’t think like that.

“Roche, you said you’d be gone less than an hour. It’s been near six! We got worried!”

For some reason that made his heart sting and he stared down at his dripping chaperon. If only they had come sooner. But would that be any better? His men - his last Blue Stripe - seeing him get fucked by the King of Redania? Seeing Witch Hunters stretch and impale his insides? His cheeks went red with embarrassment and he fisted his covering as he struggled to stand. Everything still hurt. The Pontar couldn't fix that. 

“Where were you?” She kept asking. “Did you fall into the river? You’re soaking wet! And your face. Did you get in a fight?”

He gazed at the Pontar, his body throbbing as his mind churned. Where was he? He couldn’t answer. Not ever. Yet something in him pulsed and whimpered. He had undergone a trauma. He had been punished and beaten and… He wasn’t the same.

Out of everyone in the world, Ves would understand, wouldn’t she? Yet the thought filled him with fear. To verbalize it. Was he overreacting? Was he being a fucking idiot about this?

No. She’d understand. She promised she would stay by him, no matter what.

“Ves,” he said quietly. She frowned at him, as if she was some innocent deer that had come forward for grain and saw a knife instead. “When Henselt-”

He felt her stiffen beside him. Her entire body went rigid and cold and he found his words died in his mouth. One name had changed her from being angry with worry to immediately frozen in shock. Like he had openly punched her with a fist full of ice. Was this what he was going to be like? 

No. No, Ves was violated. Abused. She had no choice, she never wanted anything like that. She had undergone true trauma. She was there when every single one of their comrades had died. Strung up like fish to be dried on racks. She had suffered immensely. Hers was a terror beyond compare.

This was different - in every sense. He made a decision to go. It was his fault. He fucking walked into the cesspool and now he was dealing with why he had shit on his boots when he knew what would happen. He made a choice - Ves didn’t. He walked into a den with his arms open. She had gone out of good faith and trust.

Quietly, he rubbed his eyes. There was nothing to compare. He was traumatizing her again because he couldn’t accept his failure. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Forget it.”

“Roche,” she said, her voice shaking. “What-?”

“Nevermind,” he brushed her off, moving to roll his chaperon up, twisting it hard into the familiar shape before he slipped it back on his head. Tighter than usual. “Forget it. The meeting went longer than I thought. My absence doesn’t warrant you to come looking for me.”

Her damn eyes were mixed with pain and frustration and he fucking felt it. For once, he understood. "Roche..."

“Ves,” he said, turning to move past her so he didn’t have to see. He just needed to forget. To stop being so fucking trusting of everyone. He did this to himself. “Come on. I’ll let you off this time but I don’t want to see you disobey me again.”

“Roche,” she muttered again, her gaze slicing through his back, but he ignored it as he slowly crossed the road, his steps heavy and aching as pain throbbed inside him. Not even the waters of Brokilon could cleanse that.

“You two,” he snapped, giving his soldiers an exhausted look. “If you keep your fucking fingers on the trigger, you’re going to shoot yourselves in the foot.”

“C-Commander,” one of them stammered as the other looked down at his crossbow as if he was too stupid to realize he had his finger there. Roche only sighed.

He could ignore it. Couldn’t he? Wasn’t he supposed to be strong?

Saving Temeria was the only thing that mattered anyway. He was stupid to focus on himself.


End file.
